My heart beats to the rain splashing against my windows, reminiscent of the time when rain would mean our bodies writing poetry across the bedsheets, when the thunder deafened me of my urge to let go. Your breath would usher sweet nothings into my ears and leave chasms for your fingers to probe and explore. Rain is the brazing reminder of how easily your touch would fog my crude sensibilities, knocking my conscience off the tightrope, and into the void you created in me. You were something I never understood, or maybe I did, only when you were tracing your name across my naked flesh with your fingers, leaving pieces yourself on me like wet paint. Umbrellas had become a thing of the past when all we did was jump on puddles, unaware of an ocean that lay before us; an ocean we drowned in, or at least I did, groping desperately, clawing, grasping, my survival instincts so precariously tangled with your presence; so I let go and sank to the rock bottom while you so effortlessly made it ashore.